


Lavender in December

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Advent Challenge 2010, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marguerite walks around the chair, a scrap of purple silk wound between the fingers of her left hand. Coward smiles at his daughter and pats his knee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lavender in December

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day three of the adventchallenge. Prompt: Bows.

Thick, full flames are licking the stones of the fireplace ashen, gilding the room with a flickering warmth that has softened even the farthest shadows to a soft, velvet grey. The wood stacked in the hearth crackles loudly as it burns but Coward's hearing is sharp (even now, three years away from his fiftieth birthday) and he can still pick out the sound of stocking feet sliding stealthily across the polished wooden floor toward his armchair.

Two dainty little hands rest themselves on his shoulders and Coward folds his copy of _Le Figaro_ in half and places the newspaper on the walnut end table beside him.

" _Bonsoir_ , papa," Marguerite says, bending her head to kiss his cheek.

She walks around the chair, a scrap of purple silk wound between the fingers of her left hand. Coward smiles at his daughter and pats his knee. Marguerite looks at him, her large green eyes wide and solemn, there's a thoughtful little frown on her face as she climbs into his lap. She sighs.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Coward asks, surprised.

Marguerite is his youngest daughter, a curious, clever creature who seems to find delight in everything about her. Coward doesn't think she's stopped grinning since the city of Lyon woke a week ago to find the world had turned white. He knows she begs her governess daily to be allowed to go ice skating.

Now her lips are pursed, the corners of her mouth down turned.

"Madame Dupont says my English is coming on very well, papa," she says.

"You've been a good girl this year," Coward says. "I'm sure you'll find something pretty under the tree for you on Christmas morning."

He pinches her toe, something that would normally elicit a fit of giggles, but she merely rests her head on his chest and sighs again.

"Do you think this is pretty?" she asks.

She holds up the piece of silk and Coward sees that it's a ribbon, the ends still tied together in a bow. Looking at it, some half remembered shape begins to shift beneath the dust covers in the back of his mind. 

"It's a pretty colour, dear," he says, taking it from her hand. Up close he can see how the threads at the end of the bow are just beginning to fray, jagged. The lavender is a trifle faded.

Marguerite shifts on his lap and Coward winces, she's getting a little too big these days to fit comfortably there. The thought makes his heart ache for a moment, surely it was only yesterday he was holding her in his arms all wrapped up in her swaddling clothes? It's a brief pain. Coward's memories are wary of the light, anaemic, they are used to being kept shut up behind tall, heavy doors.  

"Will you tie it in my hair?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

Coward nods and begins to unpick the bow already tied in the silk and all of a sudden a wave of _deja vu_ , strong enough to make his fingers fall still, overwhelms him.

"Papa?"

Coward stares at the ribbon, then shakes his head. "Where did you find this, Marguerite?"

"Madame Dupont brought a box of books down from the attic, she was looking for something written in English for me to practice with. All of mine are for _babies_."

The contempt in her voice surprises a laugh out of Coward and he forgets about the mystery of the ribbon as he gathers her thick black hair together in his hand.

"Papa . . . "

"Mmm?"

Marguerite takes in a deep breath.

"Why don't we have any family here, papa?"

Coward closes his eyes. He forces himself to smile in the hope that it will keep his tone light, pleasant. "You have a mother and a father and three brothers and sisters, Marguerite."

"But what about your-"

"You know an awful sickness struck my family's house when I was your age, dear."

"Do we have _no_ relations left in England?"

Coward can hear the pout in her voice. He wraps the silk around her hair, once, twice and then begins to make a large bow.

"Hush now," he says.

There's a moment of silence. In the fireplace a piece of wood splits with an abrupt, painful snap. Coward pulls the knot a little tighter and fluffs up the loops of the bow into a pair of butterfly wings. Marguerite is sitting stock still but he can sense her tongue is pushing against her teeth, that there's a question waiting to shatter the quiet.

"Who is Henry?" she asks.

It wasn't the question he expected. Coward blinks. His mind is as blank, as smooth as the freshly powdered snowbank outside.

"The greengrocer?" he asks, head cocked in confusion. "Henri Brun?"

Marguerite twists on his lap to face him but she doesn't meet his eyes. She's staring down at her hands. If her hair was still loose it would be falling over her face to hide her expression, defensive, guilty, but with a hint of defiance there too.

"You said . . . you said you missed him. You said you wanted to kiss him."

Her hand slips into her pocket and she brings out a small book. It's bound in red leather and there are brass rings set on the front and back cover. Coward's insides could be moulded from brass given the chill weight that's just pushed the air from his lungs in one sharp gasp. Brass rings through which you could thread a ribbon, make a bow and tie the diary shut.

"He was your brother, wasn't he?"

He can't feel her weight on his legs any more, her voice sounds as if it's echoing in some vast, dark cavern. His hands shake as he takes the book from her.

"He was family and this was written after you said-"

Coward raises the book to his lips. It smells of mildew, of too many years left amidst damp, black shadows. Yet even still, he can catch the trace of another scent. Sandalwood. His desk drawer at Belgrave.

The dust laying in front of the door to his memories picks up, swirls in a violent flurry like a sudden snowstorm. Sandalwood. Silver. Starch on a tall collar. Henry. Henry. Hen-

"No," Coward says, biting the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood.

"But you-" Marguerite begins to protest as he helps her off his lap.

Coward stands, the book in one hand and her chin gripped between the forefinger and thumb of the other.

"No," he says and Marguerite whimpers, fearful, beginning to tear up. Coward holds her more tightly and leans down so they are eye to eye. "No, Marguerite. He was a bad man. This is not to be spoken of again."

Coward releases her and throws the book into the fire.

He does not watch as it begins to burn.


End file.
